And so, once in a way, long after a particular movie is over, as the end credits roll, and the cleaners are itching to clear out the popcorn remnants on the blue carpet, you stay in your seat, unable to move. You don't wish to be distracted yet, by any reality outside, only the world that's consumed you for the last 120-odd minutes. Often, it isn't the greatest film ever, but it speaks to you at a point in your life. About the things you are thinking about at that point.

And so it was with The Mule, Clint Eastwood's latest. This isn't a film review, and I'm definitely not going to be one of the following four kinds of film critics:
1. "But Rahul, if you look at his political agenda, he's an Obama basher and a Trump supporter. I can't appreciate his films."
2. "No, no, he has handled Christian guilt far better in Invictus."
3. "See, I'm not much into Hollywood. My thing is MAMI, ya, see Roma and the Iranian masterpiece, The Fish that Swallowed the Plastic. Now that's real cinema."
4. "The Mule. No man, sh*t ending, sh*t film, too slow. If you have two hours to kill, see Simmba instead, total dhamaal."
Eastwood as Earl Stone, plays a 90-year-old divorcee horticulturist, who transports drugs for the Mexican cartel. Obviously, no one suspects him. He is curmudgeonly, a quixotic character, a true anti-hero.